


to exist, to be seen, to be held

by b_90



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Edging, F/F, I wrote this such that it kinda COULD fit in the canon, Praise Kink, Service Kink, Set during the fade-to-black in S02E05, Smut, Top!Eve, basically Eve tops from the bottom and Villanelle bottoms from the top, but also ServiceTop!Villanelle, but also it is very canon divergent lol, but also soft hours, horny hours, like actual porn, these two are both obsessed with control, we all know this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:42:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25226989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/b_90/pseuds/b_90
Summary: A spicy little Villaneve fic set during the fade-to-black in S02E05.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 51
Kudos: 415





	to exist, to be seen, to be held

“If I help you, will you give me everything I want?”  
  
Eve froze, crowded against the kitchen counter as Villanelle’s words sank into the small space between their bodies. They stood together, still in the low light of the kitchen, eyes fixed with a familiar challenge. _  
_ _  
_ That question now carved itself into reality, a hooked blade tracing lazily down Eve’s abdomen, and through her thin top she should’ve felt the threat of its cold sharpness, but she didn’t. The threat that she felt was more urgent. It was the contact of Villanelle’s arm around her waist, just firm enough to hold her there, and the soft smell of her perfume that she had to remember to _hate_ . It was in the press of their abdomens, and the warmth that she felt there, summoned by the charged gaze that they now shared.  
  
What threatened Eve was the truth -- that even as she felt the imposition of Villanelle’s question, and her body, and her blade, all of it was incidental. Eve knew, with a distant sense of shame, that she would not have taken back her space, not for how often she had imagined them to share it.  
  
_will you give me everything I want?_ _  
_ _  
_ “Yes.”  
  
Villanelle smirked, an exhilaration in her eyes that said _finally_. She felt an instinctive sense of victory leap in her chest, that same impulse that arose at the moment of the kill, to say _strike now_ . The emotions were so much the same, ruled by dominance and control, that she felt herself grasp Eve harder, searching her eyes, for something, for --  
  
For that place in her eyes that would empty. For a spark that would shrink, and fall inward, until it was so small that Eve couldn’t control her body anymore. It was so natural for her to seek it.  
  
The assassin felt herself flinch as she stepped backwards in the kitchen, too quickly. She turned, only barely casual, to reach her free hand for a mug of champagne.  
  
“Are you… going to tell me what you want?” Eve asked dryly.

The assassin took a long drink. Eve watched her in confusion, waiting for the sarcastic reply that would follow, the willful list of demands. In return, Villanelle offered her only silence, and a pair of hazel eyes staring back from behind the rim of a mug that read “#1 Teacher”.  
  
‘ _She looks_ _so young.’_ Eve thought suddenly, surprised by the observation. _  
_  
The image flashed in her mind of this Villanelle an hour prior, deciding on the perfect angle of her little black veil. She had carefully chosen all the trappings of the control she might exert tonight, and the fear she might instill. That Villanelle had been calculating, and had even planned a cruel game to play, contained within a bottle of ‘poison’ pills. Arsenic, she’d say. _Get it out, Eve!_  
  
But the eyes. The eyes had something new, and Eve had seen it.  
  
Eve felt a flash of anger as she stepped across the kitchen, _her_ kitchen, that was now the scene of this latest game of torment. She reached suddenly for Villanelle’s hand, and the blade still clasped in her fingers. “Put this down,” Eve said abruptly, her tone sharp.

Villanelle felt the warmth of Eve’s fingers on hers, and despite herself she let her grip fall open. ‘ _Keep it_ ,’ a part of her said, ‘ _Keep the knife'_ but already the blade was making a thin, metallic sound as Eve planted it on the far side of the kitchen island. The mug was taken next, a strictness in Eve’s movements that felt like a reprimand.  
  
Villanelle watched, suppressing a feeling of having been scolded, as Eve turned back to lean one hand impatiently upon the counter, before looking up at her in… anger?  
  
“What do you want?” Eve asked. “Another glass of champagne, another costume to wear? Don’t tell me tonight’s performance is already over.” The anger was growing, and Eve felt her tone bending toward mockery despite herself.  
  
Villanelle replied first with arrogant laughter. It sounded pitying. “This isn’t a costume, Eve. It’s couture.”  
  
Eve pressed her lips together, as if summoning patience. “I’ll ask again. You’re so ‘expensive’ -- what’s your price?” Her tone was acid as she spoke. “I’m sure we can find some room on the books at MI6 for your particular brand of narcissism.”  
  
Villanelle’s eyes narrowed, a smirk playing over her red lips. “Look at _you,_ feeling bold. Don’t forget that you’re the one who needs my help. This can still go very differently for you, Eve.” The assassin glanced to the counter, and the hooked blade that still lay there, one eyebrow quirked instructively.  
  
Eve followed Villanelle’s gaze before shaking her head, releasing an exhausted laugh of disbelief. “I just ... I just don’t believe you. You’re full of shit.” Eve stepped closer, her chin angled upward in challenge.  
  
“It’s all so fucking contrived, Villanelle. You give me _poison_ just to see if I’ll take it. You hold me at knifepoint just to see if I’ll scare -- but I get it now. The only thing you want is _control_ , so you manufacture it any way you can. It’s so important to you, that you invent all these manipulations, just to keep it.”

Villanelle found strangely that she could offer no reply. Her lips set mutely into a hard line, and she hated herself, not only for lacking a response, but for having _listened_.  
  
Because the truth was that Villanelle always did exactly what she wanted to do. And what she wanted to do just then, was to listen, to hear this -- this direct channel that had opened to Eve’s critical mind, and her surprising resource of courage that said she, too, had an instinct to strike.  
  
In truth Villanelle ached to see the sum of her own parts, if only in this reflection, a mirror held up by disdain. She wanted these words of contempt, because it meant that _Eve_ had chosen where they might fit within her -- in that place dimly lit by a spark that had long ago fallen inward, and was now so diminished that she couldn’t always control herself anymore, and would spend forever in the same lonely empty hollow hungry secret shaft of light that Eve could see.  
  
To be seen meant so much more than to exist. But to Villanelle it meant less than nothing, if not to be seen in full.  
  
“If that were true, I would have shot you in Paris.” She began, the words tumbling out in haste to patch the holes in Eve’s critique. “I would never have asked you--” Villanelle paused, stalling the vulnerable cast of the words to follow.  
  
“...I would never have asked you to stay.” 

Villanelle’s tone was even, so perfectly measured that it couldn’t have suggested betrayal, couldn’t have caused the sudden clap that Eve felt in her chest, like the shattering of a champagne bottle against Parisian hardwood.  
  
_Will you stay for a bit?_ _  
_  
Eve’s anger went cold, turned a corner to guilt. The quiet memory surfaced of a silk bedspread beneath them, of a finger tracing gently over her cheek, and of warm hazel eyes blinking softly.  
  
“I see.”  
  
Something passed over Villanelle’s gaze, there and gone in the space of an instant. Only grey remained to her eyes, hard and unblinking, as though in regret of ever having been warm.  
  
“You _see?_ ” Villanelle shifted. Cautious, but listening.  
  
“I know… that you’re angry.” Eve said quietly, because somehow they had come to stand much closer. “I know that I hurt you.”  
  
“Is that right.” A stubborn frown creased Villanelle’s brow. “What else do you know?”  
  
Eve’s hand rose to Villanelle’s abdomen, searching slowly over the lace of her dress, for the place where she had cut their score into her belly.  
  
“I know that you didn’t come here to kill me tonight. And that you think that’s forgiveness.”  
  
Villanelle stood quiet as finally, Eve’s fingers found the scar on her stomach, and ran softly over its length. A stillness took over as she let Eve touch, let her press into the flesh. That was forgiveness, too -- Villanelle knew it.  
  
“What else?” Villanelle’s jaw tightened as a dull pain bloomed and splintered under Eve’s touch, before fading to a pleasurable warmth.

“I know that you’ll help me.” Eve’s fingers passed back over the lace, harder this time.

Villanelle inhaled sharply, her eyes falling softly shut. “What else?” Relaxation seemed to wash over her face, and she swayed minutely where she stood, as if resisting gravity on the edge of a precipice.  
  
Eve dropped her gaze to watch her fingers as they dragged, slow, insistent, and noted the gentle lean of Villanelle’s body into their pressure.  
  
“... You like this.” Eve said lowly. She looked back over Villanelle’s closed eyes, and then down to the swell in her throat as she swallowed hard. Nearby, Eve could see the rhythmic leaping of her pulse, and a slow flush of pink.  
  
“ _Yes._ ” Villanelle huffed. Her voice sounded scratched. _Stimulated._ The sound of it ran hot through Eve’s body, causing a dull ache to unwind between her legs.  
  
Carefully, Eve opened her hand to palm Villanelle’s waist, her thumb still resting over the scar. “Is this all you want?” Eve asked, watching the minute changes in Villanelle’s face as she seemed to fight for calm. “Is pain the easiest thing?”  
  
Eve pressed down hard, her thumb digging in cruelly, and Villanelle felt her head swim, felt the spike of pain bearing through her abdomen and screaming toward her heart, hot and red and exquisite. She shuddered, bent forward into the contact, and swallowed her cry of anguish.  
  
“No, Eve.” Villanelle hissed. When she opened her eyes, her pupils were black and wide with desire. “What I want, we almost had in Paris.”  
  
Poison -- once it is allowed into the bloodstream, its toxin spreads rapidly, robbing the lungs of their air, until the heart beats itself wildly to death. It burns through the body like fire, a consuming heat that meets no natural resistance, for it was designed for this. Designed to gain access, to spread, and to consume.  
  
Villanelle dips her head to kiss her, a gentle press of lips that slips sweet and soft against her mouth, an offer where Eve would have expected demand. She closes her eyes to it, lets herself sway as Villanelle’s hand tugs gently at her waist. 

It’s the way their lips catch that strikes her -- so unassuming and pliant that Eve knows Villanelle is asking for this, for _them_ , feels the promise of it throb eagerly through her body and tighten between her legs. There’s a swell in her chest at the gentle contact of Villanelle’s finger under her chin, nudging upward just enough to improve their angle, and then it’s far, far too late.  
  
Eve rises on her toes, pressing upward for more, and suddenly it isn’t just a kiss, but that they’re kissing -- more and again until it fills Eve’s head with dark liquid, and runs over her skin like the edge of a knife. It consumes until nothing is real but the space between them -- this process of admission, urgent with the sweet taste of Villanelle’s lips, the sound of hitched breath, and the soft smell of her perfume that Eve _loves_.  
  
“I want you,” Villanelle mumbles into their kiss, a wild and tenuous restraint seeming to chord through her body. Once again she is asking, where she could just as easily take, and it makes Eve dizzy to feel her hold back like this, to feel her long fingers quiver through her hair, caught between the desire to rush and to go easy.  
  
“ _Villanelle,_ ” Eve moans softly, and it’s a perfect sound, designed to take root deep in Villanelle’s core. It was her _name_ , spoken like that for the first time, so high and breathy and full of _Eve_ that it leaves her pounding with need.  
  
“Let me have you, Eve. Let me --”  
  
“Take me to bed,” Eve interrupts, mercifully, and so Villanelle does.  
  
They stumble before walking, clumsy and still kissing, through the kitchen and up the stairs. The journey to the bedroom takes just long enough for the thought to bubble into Eve’s mind of _Niko_ , of the story of guilt she might have told herself in some other moment, but not now.  
  
Not now that they are already on the bed, kneeling up together, hurriedly pulling at clasps and tugging at fabric, until finally, they are left with only the warm feeling of skin against skin.  
  
Just one more thing.  
  
“Stay still for me.” Eve says, and Villanelle does, obedient as Eve’s hands rise to the ponytail in her hair. Her fingers move delicately, pulling gently at the elastic until it loosens to release a cascade of honey-blonde hair around her shoulders.  
  
“There.”  
  
The gesture catches Villanelle off-guard, for the simple intimacy of it, and for a moment she just stares, still kneeling as her hands fall softly around Eve’s slender waist.  
  
Eve is looking at her-- up and down her body hungrily, with soft lamplight in her hair and a pink flush in her cheeks. Her breasts press softly into Villanelle’s chest as she leans closer, reaching up to tuck a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, to whisper _that’s better_ and _gorgeous_ into the shell of her ear.  
  
Villanelle nods. Just nods, and _throbs_ , feeling drunk as the words pass through her in a wave of heat. Eve’s lips land on her neck and suck gently -- it pulls a moan from her, much louder than it should’ve been, and her thighs shake.  
  
Distantly, Villanelle has the sense that they have gone wrong somehow, that there should be more haste and teeth and _fucking_ to this, and fewer of these particular words that make the deep hollow inside of her rattle and thrash with _something,_ something that she’s unable to name.  
_  
_ Villanelle moves suddenly, hungrily, desperate to snatch at something, dropping her chin to capture Eve’s lips as her hands squeeze greedily over the globes of her ass -- before jolting back at the sudden roughness of a sharp pinch.  
  
“I told you to stay still.”  
  
Eve’s voice is firm as Villanelle looks downward to see her thumb rubbing innocently over a pale pink nipple, now slowly blushing to red. There’s a new authority to Eve’s gaze, and it clenches in Villanelle’s abdomen.  
  
“...Didn’t I?”  
  
Eve knows the danger of testing, of learning whether Villanelle will comply. A wild energy seems to scatter over Villanelle, utter focus measured only against pure arousal, guarded in her unknown capacity for viciousness.  
  
And yet slowly, Villanelle’s hands return to where they’re allowed, a soft grip over Eve’s hips.  
  
_Compliant._  
  
“You said --” Villanelle says haltingly, just shy of a whine. “-- I could have what I want.”  
  
“You will. But if we’re going to work together, you need to be able to listen.” Eve’s tone is somewhere between stern and reassuring. It buzzes pleasantly in the back of Villanelle’s mind.  
  
Eve’s free hand strokes downward through the thatch of short, wiry hair at the juncture of Villanelle’s thighs, stroking just above the place where she is throbbing. “You’ll need to be able to follow my instructions.”  
  
Villanelle’s head begins to swim, eyes half-lidded as Eve places a delicate kiss on the corner of her mouth. It feels like both a warning and a promise.  
  
“ _Please,”_ Villanelle huffs, her hips rolling forward, desperate for a firmer touch. “Please, just touch me. Feel how much I want you. You’ll like it.”  
  
Eve swallows hard and feels her cheeks burning. To hear Villanelle beg is intoxicating, after so many private nights spent with Villanelle’s voice in her head and her own hand buried between her thighs, moments always stricken from the record. Her temptation was by now a muscle memory.  
  
But long before any of that had come the analysis -- the hunt through tangled patterns, the piecing together of a whole, a scrutiny born in endless tomes of clinical psychology. Her intuition had deepened and stilled, had become a dark pool to look upon, to see Villanelle’s face reflected back at her. She had studied its shifting shape, and had come to know things -- her love of attention, of instant gratification, her impatience, and how all of it contrasted a meticulous need for control. Eve had built the shape of her into her bones, had let it calcify and become instinct.  
  
It was terrifying, and intoxicating, and it wasn’t. It was just knowing what to do. _  
_  
Eve smiles gently.  
  
“First, you’re going to show me what you’d have done for me in Paris,” She says, “And if you’re _good_ , you can have this.” Eve runs her hand further down, sliding to cup over Villanelle’s cunt, where she finds her hot and swollen and _wet_. No, she is messy -- already so deeply in need that she pants sharply and keens even at the dull contact of Eve’s palm against her clit.  
  
And then she moves.  
  
When Villanelle grabs her, Eve considers distantly that she may have miscalculated, and that this could easily go beyond her ability to control. But the fear in itself is exciting, and Villanelle is so much stronger than she looks, a practiced aggression coiled within her as she presses Eve to the bed and positions them in parallel, stomachs flush together. Villanelle’s fingertips dent hard into Eve’s skin, all bruises in the making, as she hikes her legs open to pull Eve’s thigh between her own. Their hips to slot together and Eve _pounds_ to be handled like this, pleasure punctuated by fear, as Villanelle’s thigh plants hard against her wet cunt and begins a slow grind of their hips.  
  
“You need to tell me --” Villanelle warns, her hand fisting in Eve’s curls to ease open the angle of her neck and kiss at the hinge of her jaw. “If anything is too much. Move with me, Eve.”  
  
Eve moans breathlessly, her body arching at the friction against her clit as her hips find their rhythm over the hard muscle of Villanelle’s thigh. It’s all new, but it comes naturally, as automatic as a fire burns.  
  
“That’s it, ride me just like that.” Villanelle draws a hissing breath through her teeth.. “You are making me very excited -- In Paris I didn’t have the chance to get so excited, but now --” Her voice is a growl, punctuated with a buck of her hips, and it pulls a moan from deep within Eve.  
  
“Don’t slow down --”  
  
“ _No_. Not unless you tell me to.”  
  
Villanelle breathes deeply, turns it into a sigh as she tries to steady herself, to begin in earnest.  
  
“Have you been thinking about Paris, too? About what we would’ve done _all this time?_ ” Her accent is like oiled silk in Eve's ear.  
  
“ _Yes._ God, yes. _”_ Eve chokes, reaching up, cupping Villanelle’s cheek to turn her soft lips against her own. She mumbles into their kiss, whines _Villanelle_ and _touch me_ , and tugs her hand down toward the juncture of her thighs, hips rocking back in invitation.  
  
Villanelle laughs into Eve’s mouth, and it’s so _her_ \-- cocky, self-satisfied, but for the playful lilt that brightens each note of her voice. It makes Eve’s chest flutter, makes her warm in ways she’d rather not admit, as Villanelle rolls them and comes to rest, a comfortable weight on top.  
  
“We are way off book for Paris, Eve. We would’ve gone slow, and you -- you do not want to go slow.” Villanelle curls her hand between Eve’s thighs, long fingers reaching, finally, to stroke through slick folds as Eve gasps, her body arching sharply for closeness.  
  
“So _sensitive_.” Villanelle breathes, rubbing over Eve’s seam, dragging liquid velvet upward to tend to the ache in her clit. She draws tight circles, slips an arm around Eve’s neck, and thinks she sounds beautiful when she moans.  
  
Automatically, with the easy haste that lust creates, Eve kisses her. It’s urgent and deep, laced with quiet mewls as Villanelle’s fingers take care of her -- practiced strokes over her clit that start to quicken, coaxing her down into quaking heat. Villanelle’s touch is greedy and precise and relentless, and Eve knows it will consume her.  
  
“God, you’re wet.” Villanelle says, and Eve hears how her voice has gone thin and dark, stripped bare by her arousal.  
  
“Please, _V --_ ,” A nickname. One breathless syllable that reaches into Villanelle and pulls.  
  
“ _Eve.”_ It’s all she can say.  
  
“Fuck me, V, I want you inside --”  
  
The command punches a hole in Villanelle’s chest, fills it with the promise of Eve’s pleasure. Her fingers slip eager and deep, first one and then two, crooked to the place that makes Eve sigh _yes_ and call her _baby,_ even if only by accident. The encouragement rushes in Villanelle’s blood, becoming low whispers of Eve’s name as she fucks her.  
  
Eve wants it harder, she finds she has no problem saying so -- wants to be treated roughly and made to like it, telling Villanelle with low sighs that make her squeeze her thighs together just to focus. Villanelle nods and obeys but doesn’t reply, no longer knows how to, to say that she will do anything, _anything_ she is told.  
  
“Tell me -- what you think about. When you think of us.” Eve gasps, her body warm and trembling under hard thrusts as Villanelles looks into her eyes. In them, Villanelle sees a spark, begging to be pulled down.  
  
“I think about -- about being rough with you.” Sweat sticks where their foreheads come to rest together, and shines over the muscles in Villanelle’s arm as she works. “I think about the way you always pretend. I think about making you finally admit it. That you want this. With my hands, and my mouth, and my strap --”  
  
“ _Fuck,_ V _\--_ you feel so good --” Eve’s breath hitches. “You're doing such a good job for me.”  
  
Villanelle groans, head falling into the crook of Eve’s neck because this talk makes her crazy, makes her feel faint and clench and want to come right now, buried as deep as she can inside Eve.  
  
Except that Eve is fluttering now, wet and tight around her fingers, and Villanelle would sooner die than miss her cue. Two fingers swiftly become three as her thumb circles Eve’s clit, a slick friction to force pleasure into every corner of Eve’s body, and hard thrusts to make her cry out her name.  
  
“In Paris -- I’d have strapped you, if you wanted it,” She says it with the easy recall of a fantasy revisited. “I had mine there. You’d like it. I’d make you take everything, Eve, I--” Villanelle swallows dryly, the promise of her own words slinging hot inside her core. “I know how to make it so good for you.”  
  
“God, I’m so close --” Eve feels the rising swell of her orgasm, feels Villanelle kiss softly at her neck as she buries rough pleasure in her cunt, and it’s perfect. Its edge widens and retracts, sawing through her with long fingers, fucked deep and hard to where only Villanelle reaches, to make her soften and clench and need only to be told to --  
  
“Come for me, Eve, come.”  
  
She does. She cracks open and sobs, shudders bodily as she lets Villanelle knit bliss into her guts, whispers _fuck_ and calls her _baby_ on purpose. Eve doesn't mean for her hands to fly for Villanelle’s face but they do, pulling her into a kiss, their bodies flush together as she comes long and hard on her fingers. Villanelle nurses her through it, slower circles to pull her pleasure out further, three fingers hooked to fill her. Only at length does Eve come to lie still, sighing and relaxing totally in her arms.

Eve closes her eyes to breathe, feeling boneless as Villanelle shifts over, her weight coming to rest against her shoulder. Villanelle breathes deeply and sighs -- goes _phew_ , barely audibly. Eve feels it in her chest.

When Eve’s eyes drift open, Villanelle is already looking at her. Eve shivers as Villanelle eases her fingers out of her, and watches her shiver in turn as she licks them clean. Her lips are wet as she maintains their gaze, intensely focused, a wild animal made to wait inside a doorless cage.

And yet, when she speaks, it’s just her. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?”

The question is intended to be needling, intoned as smugly as she can manage -- but the lilt of her accent is all overstimulated and clumsy and out of breath, something Eve has never quite heard before. Her cheeks are flushed from exertion, and her mussed hair looks like gold in the lamp light. The knot in Eve’s chest tightens.

Eve raises her hand to lay two fingers upon Villanelle’s neck, over the place where she can see her pulse leaping. “Listen to you.” She says, and feels the furious hammering of blood below the pads of her fingers.  
  
Villanelle frowns impatiently as she lets Eve touch. “Was I --” She begins, before changing tack. “Did you like it?” She props up on one arm to inch closer, thighs shifting restlessly.  
  
Eve’s fingers glide over drying sweat, up Villanelle’s neck and then further into golden hair. She spreads her fingers, runs the tips over Villanelle’s scalp, up and down, and watches as it lulls her eyes closed.  
  
Eve is certain that it shouldn’t be this easy -- to know what to do, and what to say, to watch their instinct unfurl with ease, a rose blooming in shared soil. They had soaked the earth with blood, and it had swallowed her shame anyway, had become nothing but dry ground for them to pace in the hope of… what did they call it? 

Hide and seek and cat and mouse and me and you and _Paris_.  
  
Villanelle looks soft in the lamplight.  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Eve says quietly, fingertips scratching slowly, up to the crown of her head where it makes her lengthen like a cat into the contact. “I liked everything you did.”  
  
Eve’s fingers scrape downward, leaving red lines over the skin of Villanelle’s neck before they trace her clavicle, and sees goosebumps appear in their wake. She turns the truth over in her head, finding that the words sound rude, and raw, as well as perfectly right -- so she says them. She says them all.  
  
“I liked it when you pushed me down, and grabbed me, and when you spread my legs.”  
  
Villanelle groans like she’s been touched somewhere else, and drops her head to rest on Eve’s shoulder. Her warm breath spills down Eve’s chest in gasps as each word seems to strike to the bone.  
  
“I liked all those things you said, and the way you felt on top of me.”  
  
Eve’s hand rambles downward over a breast, and Villanelle arches gently into the contact, putting herself in Eve’s hands. Eve squeezes and runs her thumb in circles over the nipple, and it causes Villanelle’s eyes drift open, her gaze glassy as she fixes Eve with a look that is incredibly, painfully turned on. It’s the most dangerous thing that Eve has ever seen. She reaches for Eve, pulling them back into one another, and her hands feel soft and warm over Eve’s hips.  
  
“I liked the way you touched me. How focused you are when you fuck me. I liked the way you felt inside me, and how hard you made me come.”  
  
Villanelle moans softly and noses through dark curls up to Eve’s ear -- first a kiss against her temple, then a nip at the hinge of her jaw. Hands grabby, nails in her skin, hips restless and squirming. _Eve, Eve, Eve._ _  
_  
“You made _sure_ I liked it, didn't you?”  
  
Villanelle kisses her, nods into it affirmatively. _Mhmm._ Eve lets it run through them, slower and more deliberate than before, speaks the truth in stolen gasps against Villanelle’s greedy lips.  
  
“You were so good. You gave me everything, and you’ve been so patient _._ ”  
  
Villanelle groans and tugs at her hungrily, throwing a knee around Eve’s hip to hook her closer. It exposes her inner thighs, and Eve sees the way they shine, slick with an anticipation that means Villanelle has been ready and waiting for so long.  
  
“ _Eve,_ _please,_ just touch me -- it won't take much --” She pants, but Eve’s hand is already there, flipping the muscle memory in her head to stroke her fingers where Villanelle is warm, and swollen, and unbelievably wet.  
  
Eve finds that she doesn’t feel like a beginner -- she feels like herself. Her fingers move with ease, slick and nearly frictionless in Villanelle’s arousal, to find her swollen clit. The first contact makes Villanelle jerk, her nerves overstimulated by delay, and when Eve looks over her face, she almost thinks she looks embarrassed.  
  
“Is it too much?” _  
__  
_ Villanelle laughs through her nose, her cheeks stained pink as she rolls her hips into Eve’s fingers. “I don’t understand the question.” _  
_  
Eve presses their lips together, and the sound Villanelle makes is deeply grateful.  
  
She doesn’t talk as much -- not when it’s her turn. She’s different to how Eve would have thought. Villanelle is so responsive like this, her moans soft and feminine. She whispers _Eve_ like a plea, cups her cheek to get attention and tells her just how close she already is. Her eyes are wide and honest, like there’s something new inside them. Eve thinks it should be hers, and doesn't know where the thought came from.  
  
“Go slow or I’ll be finished,” Villanelle begs softly. “Let me last a little while.”  
  
So Eve goes slow. It feels powerful, somehow -- staying just behind her shudders, listening to the bright swell of her moans, and watching long muscle twitch under golden skin to judge what she can take. Her clit is hard and swollen under Eve’s circling fingers, and Eve swears that she can feel her throbbing. It’s just enough to go on, just enough for Eve to keep her on the edge.  
  
It’s a kind of analysis, really. Eve is good at that, she thinks. Find the pattern, send it back on itself. Villanelle seems to love it, enjoys the game of instinct and hums ingratiatingly when Eve paces her just right. She arches as Eve’s lips close around a pink nipple, and shivers when she licks in slow circles. It hardens in Eve’s mouth and Villanelle pushes herself into her tongue with a deep sigh, breathing out a few short words in whispered Russian.

Eve listens, can't understand, and feels it tingle down her neck all the same.

Out of the corner of her eye, Eve catches Villanelle’s hand as it drapes lazily over her abdomen to run two fingers slowly over her scar. The short line of knitted flesh is red with irritation, and the sight makes Eve freeze.

“I don’t mind that you hurt me,” Villanelle says suddenly, and Eve realizes that she is looking at her. “Because you are good at saying sorry.”

“I’m not sorry.” Eve replies, automatically, and wonders if it’s a lie. Villanelle just stares at her, biting her lip as if she knows a secret as Eve bows back toward her chest.  
  
“...But you _are_ good at this, Eve,” She purrs as Eve’s fingers begin to move once again, and rolls back just a bit, enough to offer up her other breast. Eve captures that one next, and feels Villanelle’s gasp run through her own body as long fingers weave with reverence through her curls.

“Touch me like this…” Villanelle says, her free hand sliding down between her own thighs. Her fingers frame Eve’s own, moving instructively, showing her something different -- up and down, up and down. “I’ll come fast if you do this any harder.” She keens as if to prove it, her breaths rising in pitch, and Eve’s head rings with the sound.  
  
Distantly, Eve remembers a pane of glass, and a crack running through it. She thinks of pressing her finger against the place where it splits, hearing the fine crystalline sound as it strains under the pressure. She thinks of how it won’t break, not really, not in any sort of violent and breathtaking way -- at least not like that.  
  
Eve thinks of Villanelle’s skin, an endless golden plane broken by just one small pink scar, and of her glass eyes that have no bottom.  
  
She thinks of Villanelle, and where she sees the cracks.  
  
Villanelle moans sharply and Eve realizes just how hard she’s been touching her. Villanelle is squirming, her neck craned against the pillow as she hisses through her teeth to whisper _fuck, just like that._ Her head rolls, spills onto Eve’s shoulder and Eve feels her body begin to tense.  
  
“You can make me --” Villanelle’s breath hitches once, twice, and she looks at Eve as though from very far away. “You can make me come now, Eve.”  
  
Eve hums in acknowledgment and rubs her just the way she likes, relentless and exact, and Villanelle wonders if it might have never felt like this before -- so satisfying, and so intense it could be pain, it could be just another knife, she could be throbbing and choking and edging so _close_ until the moment that Eve decides her fate. Eve’s lips are on her neck, pressing teeth into her skin and sucking gently where it makes her head spin. Her scar aches. Her clit aches. She’s about to come.  
  
“Eve, I’m going to --” Villanelle gasps, every nerve inside her body folding into the friction on her clit. Eve feels her starts to arch, watches as her eyes screw shut and her breath hitches, her face flushed and incredibly beautiful.  
  
“You’re going to what?” Eve asks, her voice low in Villanelle’s ear.  
  
“ _Come_ , you’re going to make me come --”  
  
Except that the exquisite friction between her legs is now slowing down, and the swelling tide of her pleasure ebbs just out of reach, leaving her trembling and needy still.  
  
Villanelle keens and sobs, confusion written on her face as she whips her head to fix wide eyes on Eve, only to find her smiling faintly.  
  
“ _Eve!_ ” She whines, inarticulate as her body flushes with heat, just before she’s cut off by a kiss. It’s slow and deep, with teeth on her lips, and then the caress of Eve’s tongue in her mouth. Her fingers tighten where they bury themselves in thick brown curls as Eve strokes _just_ too softly over her clit, making the world vibrate and feel blurry and seem terribly close. There’s a smile in Eve’s voice when she mumbles into their kiss -- _Sorry baby_.

“ _Please_ , I need to --”  
  
“You need to ask me, okay?” Eve’s tone is warm. Villanelle groans as Eve rests their foreheads together, and feels rippling pleasure bloom in waves under Eve’s fingers. “When you’re ready. You can come as soon as you ask nicely.”

The words almost don’t make sense in Villanelle’s ears. Her thoughts scatter, unable to track her own elation at receiving new instructions. Such a test should feel repugnant, and weak, but it doesn’t, it’s a pure rush of excitement vibrating through her body, tensing against an ancient part of her that hackles instinctively.  
  
She tosses her head against the pillow, heart pounding in her cunt as Eve’s fingers dip further down to nudge against it. The caged part of her wants to scream, to lash out and use force and take what she is _owed_ , but then suddenly Eve is inside her, and everything notches up another key.  
  
It changes the way they move -- Villanelle sobs with pleasure and rocks into each thrust, driving Eve’s fingers inside herself hard and rutting her clit against Eve’s palm. It feels amazing -- pure and vulgar and unrestrained, all of it meant just for her. Eve meets her half way and watches her for cues, a curious intensity in her careful almond eyes.  
  
It strikes Villanelle, always as if for the first time, how perfectly pretty she is, and just how long she has wanted this -- Eve’s fingers inside her, and maybe more than that, Eve inside her _head_ \-- at home in the hollow open only to her, to calm the rattle and thrash with a new feeling, if she would only let her _have it, it’s mine, you’re MINE let me have it --_

Villanelle cups Eve’s face, her mouth open and panting, chasing breaths she can’t catch as she feels her body stiffen and stumble deliriously toward orgasm. “You have to give me what I want.” She gasps, keens, schools her jaw just to speak. “Let me have it, or I’ll --”

“Ask for it.” Eve says, her gaze calm. _Controlled_. “You’re going to ask for it.”  
  
Villanelle doesn’t know why, but it’s too much, it’s an incompatible signal, a sudden trip in a poorly-wired circuit. She growls, frustration thrashing in its cage as her hand flies to the column of Eve’s throat, fingers landing over the skin and trembling as though in the effort not to squeeze.  
  
“I could crush you.” Villanelle’s voice pitches with desperation. “I could throttle you and take your life right now. It would be _easy_.” The words are chosen for their venom, but the delivery is a cry -- shaky and wrong, sounding like something in her memory, like so many broken last words. _Please. I’ll do anything._  
  
Eve shakes her head gently. “You won’t.” She moves forward, pressing her throat into Villanelle’s hand. “It’s okay.”  
  
Eve leans in and Villanelle lets her, lets Eve kiss her softly, again and again, to scatter new colours in her mind as she sows pleasure deep within her body. Even that feels like submission, and like all she’ll ever want, as three fingers hook inside her to that place that feels like heaven, to flip a switch and make her sob and say things that she usually wouldn’t -- _oh my god, right there, Eve, fuck me just like that, oh my god --_ _  
__  
_ How did this happen? When did Eve learn her, and how is she in control, of this ribbon of pleasure pulled through new parts of her that she’d put there herself with just a few perfect words, and how does it feel so good and raw and _right,_ and how is it _still not enough?_ _  
__  
_ “You said -- you’d give me everything I want.”  
  
“I am, baby, I am.”  
  
It’s as if Eve feels Villanelle get calm. The hand on Eve's throat falls away, moving instead to cup gently over her cheek. Villanelle is looking at her, a plea in her eyes of animal need, of pure _lack_ , an empty space desperate to be full.  
  
She says it quietly. “ _Please,_ Eve, can I come?”

Eve nods reassuringly. “ _Yes_ , gorgeous. Go ahead and come for me.”

Villanelle does as she is told. She rocks hard into Eve’s hand and comes immediately, shuddering soundlessly against her as she contracts around the fingers in her cunt. Almost vicariously, Villanelle hears a woman deep in climax, and a strangled moan of Eve’s name, before realizing it’s her. Her eyes shut tight as her hand slides from Eve’s cheek and into her hair, pulling her closer until her voice is close and sweet in her ear, to deliver quiet encouragement while she comes -- _good girl, let it go, I want to hear you --_ and she could cry, she could die, she’s in pieces.  
  
Eve fucks her steadily, straight through her orgasm and into the swell of another -- Villanelle isn’t sure how Eve knows, but she must, because she tells her to touch herself, lets her rub hard at her clit to help her come the second time, until she’s hardly breathing through the way she clamps down, with barely enough air in her lungs left to beg -- _tell me again, Eve, say it again --_ _  
_ “Good girl, you’re such a good girl. Keep coming for me, just like that.”  
  
And then she’s gone -- she falls away from it all, becoming nothing but a thoughtless pulse, going quiet deep inside, peaking hard and long and so sweet before the fall.

.

.

.

  
  


When Villanelle comes back to herself, it’s because Eve’s hands are bracketing her face, turning her to look into her eyes with mild concern.  
  
“Hey.” Eve says at length, their breath mingling in the small space between them.  
  
“Eve.” She replies, because there isn’t anything else.

“You ok?” Eve asks.

Villanelle is thinking. That this would probably be a time to kiss her properly -- the kind of kiss that says something new and lets them stay here to talk of pillows, or however the saying goes -- but already a resignation is shuffling behind Villanelle’s ribs, to say that it would be in violation of a contract, a holdover signed by different versions of themselves, people living just a few hours on either side of _now_.  
  
And yet maybe -- maybe if she could do something while they still have the air, before this room changes and clicks over into the next moment, maybe she could say the bigger thing. But then that would require knowing what the bigger thing is, rather than just knowing that there is one, and that it is really, really, _really_ big.  
  
Instead, she manages what she can.  
  
“Can I go down on you?”  
  
It earns her a small smile.  
  
“Yeah, you’re fine.” Eve replies drolly, but Villanelle thinks her voice sounds different, like she’s gone further away.  
  
In truth, there’s nothing Eve has ever wanted quite like that _._ She wants Villanelle’s lips and her tongue, she wants the way her moans might feel against her core, she wants the introduction of long fingers and the rough edge that it promises. And yet slowly, Eve feels her smile fall away.  
  
She knows they could just -- _do this_. She could let Villanelle squirm down the bed, let her spread her legs again to lap at her cunt and drink her down until she sees nothing but black and red. She could invite her onto her thigh, talk her through it as she rides herself to orgasm, or lie back and be ruined by her strength, and then only after, taste the sweet wetness that it spills between her golden legs.  
  
Because now they know that this _works_ , at least in this capacity, and is in fact altogether obvious, and can be so incredibly good --  
  
_But._  
  
But.  
  
This would very swiftly become a need -- has already begun to smack of necessity -- and to need what she actually _might_ need, from someone who can’t even understand the concept?

It’s as terrifying as it is sad.

Panic gnaws. Eve shrugs off Villanelle’s arms, a little too quickly, and sits up. She looks pointedly at the bedside clock and doesn’t think of what’s happening on Villanelle’s face.

Midnight.

“We’re already late.” Eve lies, and stands up. She rounds the foot of the bed, starting to collect her clothes from the ground as she speaks. “We need to get dressed. MI6 will be sending a car -- our rendezvous is in the Forest of Dean, so we’ll be driving through the night. I’ll brief you on the way.”

Eve glances to Villanelle just in time to see her bury the confusion in her eyes. Eve says anything to keep from processing it. "Please get up."  
  
Suddenly Villanelle feels very naked. She stiffens on the bed, half sits up, works her jaw and then sits up completely, legs over the edge, feeling cold steel gather back into her spine.  
  
“Shall we leave a note for Niko?” She asks, her tone subtly venomous. “I know how much you consider his feelings.” She inclines her head sarcastically, and gives it a condescending pout.  
  
Eve searches for the anger to frown, sorts past anxiety and grief, and settles for a blank gaze.  
  
It makes Villanelle feel empty and lonely and terribly loud, somewhere deep inside.  
  
“Get ready quickly and don’t be an asshole.” Eve says. “I’m going to get changed.”  
  
Eve grabs her shirt from its place on the floor as Villanelle watches, her movements performatively terse, before striding for the doorway into the hall --

Almost at the threshold, Eve looks down to see a hair tie on the carpet, tossed there carelessly by someone she’d only just been. She stoops slowly to pick it up, turns to offer it up to Villanelle.  
  
“This is yours.” Eve says, much quieter, and hears the soft stumble in her own voice. When Villanelle meets her gaze, there is absolutely nothing behind her eyes.  
  
“Thanks, boss.”

.

.

.  
  


The night air is cool when they step out onto Eve's porch.  
  
Eve makes it just a few steps before Villanelle turns back to her, her black dress swirling, like a column of smoke turning around her legs, or the gathering of a storm.  
  
“Eve, you left your door open.” She says, and Eve almost waits to hear thunder.  
  
Eve turns back, grasps the handle, and pulls the door shut.  
  
She follows Villanelle into the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my humble addition to the KE fandom, and also the first thing I've written in about 8 years. This fandom has such truly amazing writers so it's pretty intimidating, but I hope people enjoy this. Please leave a review with anything at all! Any feedback is cool after going so long without writing :)
> 
> also sorry if the tense switch bugged you but it was a CHOICE OKAY that makes it art


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